Mi Libertad at the Cost of Others

My mother doesn’t like to talk about her past.

I try to pry, to learn more about her and, in turn, to learn more about me.

“How did you get that scar?” 

“Protesting.” 

Marble counter cracked and splintered into her arm, slicing open a wound that would never fade as she yelled for liberty from our small apartment window. 

Sometimes she gives me snippets of what life was like before I can remember —

My brother making molotov cocktails on the floor with water bottles and strings from toys. 

My sister Oriana protecting her classmates in university as military men with guns bigger than her body pointed them at the heads of her terrified friends.

“She was good, your sister. Too bad she never got to finish her education.” 

In a time where the main target group for murder were university students, my sister still managed to protect others, to advocate for the liberty of those who had everything to lose. 

I imagine the day she watched one of her mutual friends die in a shooting while he ate a pastry. 

Or the times she had to run past what they called “no man’s land” with a friend after school at a time where gang rapes where common: daily. 

My mother tells me with teary eyes that Oriana is the one who has witnessed the most.  

I think she feels guilty for Oriana’s stolen youth.

But I think my brother is the most traumatized.

I imagine the pantry of his military father’s house empty with cobwebs. 

Or the school he attended where kids slid guns on desks to threaten teachers into good grades. 

Collared uniforms dirty with the ash and black tar of protests.

Eyes of people my age, mere children, red from tear gas bombs or completely blinded forever.

They will never see freedom.

Some never saw tomorrow. 

Despite the stories painted by my siblings, my mom still remains a mystery.

Her silver hair, green eyes, and tight lips never reveal any of the truth I seek. 

But, she and I are conjoined at the hip. 

She calls me her tick, because I’ve never left her side. 

Yet, still, I don’t know anything about her life before we moved. 

Her lips sealed, her brain longing to block out the awful memories that follow her.

She hopes to never have to see flames of hate,

to experience the burn of defeat.

Hopeful children still lead protests for a liberated future that never came.

“A fight for the liberty of all,” they howled as militaries killed their classmates, friends, family, any remaining humanity clinging to the camouflage fabric of military uniforms. 

“In the end it's sad, Naty. All those kids died for nothing,” my mother tells me. 

In the end, we all left, Oriana without saying goodbye, my brother coming to America with hollow cheekbones, and me without any memories of my country.

I sometimes dream of having the power to move people with my words, to carry the strength of all those who died without seeing 20, to get rid of the guilt I feel because I know my liberty came at the cost of others.

Nathalia D'agosto ‘26

I wrote this piece to liberate myself from a place of uncertainty. I wanted to share the stories of my beautiful siblings and of my strong mother in a way that felt personal to me. I hope that by sharing stories about my experiences I can make someone else feel seen and heard. No matter how little or insignificant you feel, your story matters in the grand picture.